


Nos chagrins, nos plaisirs

by gloss



Category: Captain America, Nick Fury: Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.
Genre: Multi, SHIELD, Threesome - F/M/M, polyfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-23
Updated: 2010-07-23
Packaged: 2017-10-10 18:20:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/102692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nick Fury gets everything he wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nos chagrins, nos plaisirs

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Nick Fury/Steve Rogers/Contessa Val de Fontaine, regret

Nick Fury was a goddamn pitiful excuse for a man. He always had been, always would be.

The trick, see, was making sure no one else twigged on.

He'd come damn close, though, with the whole Val and Cap mess recently. Too close. Closer than he'd been since the war, if he was going to be honest.

(Not likely.)

Val knew all that, too. Knew it as well as he did, probably better -- she was a dish and a half, but smarter than anything.

She knew, too, not to bring it up when he was sober or vertical.

On his back, sauced to the gills, cock throbbing below her -- that was something else entirely.

That was a whole other situation.

And Val knew *that*, too. Knew she had him exactly where she wanted him, knew he'd just about sit up and beg if she crooked one pretty little finger.

"What was he like?" she said and leaned back, just out of reach.

Fury swallowed a curse. "Who?"

She licked her lips. Slowly, sure he was watching, and sucked her cheeks in, made sure he knew exactly what she was promising. "Captain America," she said lightly, the accent thicker than ouzo, and she swallowed. "In the war."

"Cap --" Fury's cock pulsed; sweat stuck him to the sheets. Val smiled down at him and slid one bra strap down, then the other. Cap was everything everyone said he was, back then, all the more now. Goddamn glorious, brilliant and beautiful. He rolled his hips against the tension. "He was there. Y'know."

She unlatched her brassiere, loosed her breasts into his waiting palms. He craned up and buried his face between them.

She curled over him. "Going to fuck him."

"Who?" Nick fell back and circled his thumbs around her nipples. "Who? You or me?"

"Yes," Val said and pushed into his palms.

"Darlin', that's no kind of answer." He ran his teeth up her neck, into her hairline, damp with perfume and sweat. "You know that."

"Yes," she said again and, later, "_Both_."

She had one hand closed in his chest hair, long nails clawing and scratching, as she rose and fell over him. She was slick and hot between her legs, smearing his skin and pubes, teasing his dick. He had to squeeze shut his eye and count backward to control the urge to buck up, roll her over, shove himself deep.

Then she leaned over him and dragged her tongue down his jaw line. He bounced and grunted; he'd gotten to the point that the smell of her goddamn lipstick was enough to get the precum seeping.

"Caro," she murmured and twisted in his hands, up on her knees to drag her breasts across his chest. "Want to fuck him, the both of us."

"Both? You and me?"

She tilted her head back. Her smile was as round and heavy-bottomed as she was, as her tits, as her ass. Fury's mouth was dry; his dick twitched.

"Yes, Colonel," she replied.

When she saluted, he pushed his hips up and grunted.

She really would be the death of him.

*

In the war, Cap was beautiful. Fury was even uglier than he was now, just about ready to piss his pants every fucking chance he got, ugly and yellow and louder than shelling to cover up both those facts.

The way Cap smiled -- at Bucky, at the mademoiselles and frauleins and pretty little chickadees, at the film cameras and newspaper wags -- it was just about enough to melt your heart.

Good thing Fury was well-known to be a heartless bastard, then.

*

 

"When?" she asked, looking over her shoulder. Her cheek was red, her mascara starting to run, her lip caught in her teeth. "When can we have him?"

He was fucking her against his desk in SHIELD HQ. Her girdle was around one ankle, her skirt was flipped up to her shoulders, and he had her dead to rights. Hand on her clit, rubbing hard and flat just like she loved it, his cock halfway to *Milan*.

Fury's balls slapped her ass and he broke a tchotchke when he reared back to shoot.

*

ESPer Division was no help; the eggheads claimed they "can't make someone do what he wouldn't ordinarily do". If that's the case, Fury would really like to know why they're still receiving funding. The fuck's the point?

He didn't dare ask Dugan and Jones for advice.

Chemistry, though, he could work with that. He had a nice little talk with one of the white-coated whizzes. Two weeks later, they'd cooked up some pheromones and put it in a Binaca spritzer.

*

Cap proved harder to get a hold of than Nick would have expected. He was busy with his new squeeze, and who could blame him? The Falcon was a fine specimen of man. Fury was the first to admit that.

The ban on SHIELD agents consorting with Captain America had been quietly lifted, but Fury still arranged to meet him in a neutral space -- a townhouse in Turtle Bay, so far east you could smell the river. The top floor apartment belonged to one of Gabe's ladyfriends from the jazz circuit. (Or, probably, to one of her sugardaddies.)

He smoked two stogies while he waited and drank three Scotch and sodas.

He put some Piaf on the hi-fi and turned down the lights.

When Rogers appeared, he wore a hat and sack suit like all the poor schlubs climbing aboard the 4:42 to Croton Falls. Fury motioned him in, told him hang his hat and slip off his jacket.

Like looking back twenty years, a blink of an eye, not a hair out of place. Rogers unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves as he took a seat. He turned down a drink, so Fury sloshed himself another one and took his sweet time.

"Sorry?" Rogers murmured. He shifted under Fury's gaze, looked away, dropped his eyes. His thick, pretty lashes brushed unlined cheeks. "Sir?"

"Apologies've already been made," Fury said and set down his glass. He leaned forward, closed the space between them. "And I think we can dispense with the chitchat. You follow?"

"Sir," Rogers said and lifted his chin. He met Fury's gaze and nodded. "Yes. I follow."

"Good." Fury started to settle back in the club chair. Rogers was too fast for him. Too young, too strong: he always had been.

Rogers slid his hand around Fury's neck, pulled him in, knocked their foreheads together.

Fury got both hands on Rogers's broad shoulders as he gasped, as Rogers rasped his thumb back and forth over Fury's stubble. The kiss burned hotter than cheap booze, went deeper than any cigar.

It was just like it once was, and nothing like it. Fury hung on, bit down, then thrust his tongue in, and in. Rogers was down on one knee, chest plastered to Fury's. He was pouring something into the kiss, something that Fury thought was long gone.

Their trousers were tugged open, a big, soft hand was stroking him as he grasped Rogers's ass through his old-fashioned drawers, his fingers digging and flexing.

Just last month, Rogers decked him in the street; two days later, Fury beat him nearly to a pulp in retaliation. The rage and regret were still here, twining around them and seething under skin. But there was *this*, as well, Rogers's sweet kid mouth and the hints in his accent of the old neighborhood, Irish and angry and all home.

Fury locked his legs and held still, his cock quivering against Rogers's palm.

They heard the click of heels in the hall, then keys in the locks. Fury held Rogers still with the pressure of two fingers on the nape of his neck.

"Contessa," he said. "Benvenuto, buonaserra."

Silhouetted against the bright hallway, Val wore a short, tailored raincoat, tightly belted at her wasp waist, a dark scarf around her bare neck, and another pair of lethally-pointed heels.

Rogers loosened under Fury's touch and bowed his head. His breath came warm against Fury's bare thigh.

Val shed her coat, revealing just a slip, one of her more modest ones, cream silk that darkened her skin. She joined them, perching on the edge of Fury's chair, kissing his temple and trailing her fingers through Rogers's hair.

"You might have waited," she said.

Fury drew her over his lap. "He started it."

Laughing, Val wiggled in his hold to work her arm around Rogers's neck. "He's lying, isn't he?"

Rogers swallowed. His face looked damp and flushed. "No, ma'am."

Tonight, Val wore no bra, no girdle. She was plump under his hands, heavy and soft. Her hair smelled like exhaust and Shalimar.

"Is that so?" Val touched Rogers's cheek with one long fingernail and clucked her tongue.

His eyes flickered past her. When they found Fury, his brows rose in question.

Fury drank down the watery dregs of his cocktail. "Don't look at me. Ask her. I'm just along for the ride."

Val laughed, deep in her throat, and wriggled some more. "Now who's lying?"

Rogers tried to sit back on his heels, but both Fury and Val caught him and held him still.

"I'm not sure what's happening," he said.

"Oh, caro," Val said.

Fury sucked the liquor off his teeth. "For Christ's sake, we'd like to fuck you, soldier. That so difficult?"

He managed to look both amazed and flattered. His mouth formed the word oh, but Val was kissing him and sucking in the sound.

While she kissed Rogers, Fury held her up, his face buried in her hair. She wrapped thumb and forefinger around the base of his cock and pinched him hard, letting up, then tightening, in time with the rise and dip of her shoulders and the kiss itself.

He could destroy Rogers. He would have, months ago, but the sight of Val's dark head against Rogers's golden one, her skin brushing his, took Fury's rage and jealousy and made something new.

"You wanted to know what he was like in the war," he whispered as he leaned forward.

Their kiss broke and both regarded him. Kids, the both of them, guileless blue eyes and so pretty you could cry.

Fury rolled his hips. "He was just like this. On his knees, mouth open. Hungry for it."

Someone moaned at that. Maybe all of them; Fury couldn't be sure, because Rogers was sucking him and Val was twisting around, crouching over him, pushing her rump up against Roger's forehead as Fury reached to stroke her.

No panties, either, just slick, hot skin. He muttered praise into the kiss, but Rogers sucked him deep just as Val fucked her tongue in against his soft palate.

Fury let himself enjoy it, just a little too long, before he lifted Val off him and kicked Rogers away. A rope of spit and precum swung briefly, caught the light from the street, between his cock and Rogers's wide, pink mouth.

"Bed," Fury told them. When he stood, his pants pooled around his ankles, exposing the holster on his calf. Every scar on his sorry skin burned with arousal. "Now."

*

In a just world, they would have slid Val between them, fucked her together like guys always do. Or Rogers would have been the focus, glad and big, golden and pure.

But this was Fury's world, and so here he was on his back, one leg over those broad shoulders, Captain America's dick buried hilt-deep and damn near splitting him open, while the enigmatic Contessa writhed on his face as she licked his cock. Fucked hard enough to drive the air from his lungs, he'd start to soften, and she'd suck him right back up.

Val's cunt was so sweet, tasted like nuts and olives and sunshine, and he could die here, happily, curling his tongue around her swollen clit, fucking it into her hole, spreading her buttocks with his hands and going to town on her asshole.

She lost all her slink, all her composure, started yowling like a street cat and cursing like a fishwife. She raked her nails up his leg, down Rogers's arm, and rubbed herself backward until she'd soaked his face and clogged his nose.

He slapped her ass, then again, hips bucking at the resounding noise, then helped her slide to the side, one arm around her while she panted and whimpered into his chest.

And still Rogers _fucked_. Like a machine, like a goddamn hero, hair plastered to his forehead, mouth fallen open, and he was just getting thicker, deeper. The heated *stretch* of him, pushing pleasure in and dragging it up, could have made a lesser man weep. As it was, Fury was about ready to bend himself in two and let Rogers just break him apart like an overripe melon.

"Sir?" Rogers said and gave a twist to his thrust that made Fury shout, voice gone high as a girl's.

"Yeah, kid?" Fury struggled upward, weight back on one hand, Val slipping away.

He fucked Rogers back, tried to drive his cock forward, up, searching for friction. He grabbed one of Roger's shoulders, the muscles rolling and shifting like geological formations, and pushed harder.

Rogers bent down, hands on either side of Fury's face, and fucking *kissed* him. Soft, tentative, almost virginal.

Romantic.

Fury bit Rogers's tongue, then his lip, as he shook and shot, emptying his balls, shouting, striping Roger's beautiful torso with his cum.

"Ah," Rogers said, as if he'd confirmed something.

Fury fell back, spent and rubbery, and Rogers smiled at him, stroked his legs, and switched his hips back and forth. "I'm about to --"

"Do it," Fury growled, and clutched Val close. He closed his eye, tipped his head back, chin up to the ceiling, and took it. Val had one hand between her legs again, her lids heavy and lipstick smeared. She dragged one finger through the cum on Rogers's chest and Fury's dick, then sucked it clean.

"C'mere," Fury said when Rogers pulled out with a squelch and bitten-off whine, when he stood there looking embarrassed. He thumped the bed. "I said, *c'mere*."

Gingerly, Rogers sat at the foot of the bed before lying down beside Fury without, actually, touching him. His spent cock lolled, dark and damp, on the mussed sheets.

"Oh, *Steve*," Val said and reached for him across Fury.

He let her draw her in, close, until his head rested on Fury's shoulder. Val smoothed back his hair and patted his cheek before she curled up, too. Her hair was radically disordered, soft and drooping, the white streak curving like a comma over her ear.

With the arm around her, Fury cupped the side of her breast; with the arm around Rogers, he massaged the bicep muscles. He dropped a kiss on Val's head, then on Rogers's cheek.

"Aww, hell," he said, when he realized he hadn't even gotten a chance to try the seduction spray.

Neither stirred, so Fury didn't say anything more.

He was a sorry excuse for a human soul, but who was laughing now? He had two of the most beautiful people on Earth in his bed, adhering to him with sweat and sex, come and smiles.

Life was good. It always was when he had anything to say about it.


End file.
